


My Lifes Best Part

by soviet_Crab



Series: At Least We Now Have A Story To Tell [1]
Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Angst, Eventual Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Touch-Starved, lots of blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:13:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23681389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soviet_Crab/pseuds/soviet_Crab
Summary: Baumer survives getting strangled and is dragged along in an attempt to defect. Now he is wounded and left wandering nomans land. Will he make it to the end of the war?
Relationships: Soldat Baumer/Private Kilgour (1917)
Series: At Least We Now Have A Story To Tell [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1713082
Comments: 7
Kudos: 48





	1. Stars in the Dark

His vision slowly begins to clear. Black spots fading away. Müller is shaking him awake. Fritz tries to breathe only to go into a coughing fit. It feels as though his throat is on fire. Müller pulls him up by his collar so that he is in a sitting position. He asks if Fritz is alright. When he tries to answer, all that comes out is a weeze. His hands reach gingerly for his throat, already anticipating the pain that will come from touch. His fingers brush his skin, sending a sharp ache through his neck and down his spine. He tries calling for help but nothing comes out of his throat except a cough. Fritz is beginning to panic. Hot tears start to build up behind his eyes and he blinks them back, not wanting to cry in front of his friend.

Müller takes his hands and pulls him to his feet. He gets his rifle and grabs Fritz by the shoulder, pushing him towards a small door in the back corner. He tells him in a hushed tone that they are leaving. This war is going to kill them both and for no reason. What were they even fighting for? 

Now they were out on the street. If you could even call it that. The bombed out buildings around them were lit by the roaring fire of the church. The occasional magnesium flares over head gave the whole place an hellish feel. Like when a lamp is held too close to the floor, sending shadows where they should not be. 

Müller helps him through the quickly lightening streets. They should have waited until the next night. Someone will surely spot them in the daytime. Fritz can feel his heartbeat in his damaged throat. Blood is rushing past his ears. The blue glow of a fresh morning was starting to fall on the ruined town. Müller must be starting to realize his mistake at this point now. He was moving faster and Fritz was falling behind. He held back his coughs and swallowed his fear. If he had refused to go he would probably be fine. He gave into peer pressure all too easily. Now he was going to die for it.

They marched in silence for much longer than Fritz thought was possible. The sun was just beginning to peak over the horizon when he heard someone call out. He froze in his tracks, body shaking with fear. Müller grabbed his wrist and started to run. Shots sounded behind them. One. Two. Three. Out of the corner of his eye he watched as a spray of red burst from Müller’s chest. He fell hard, dead. Fritz tried to scream but of course he could not. 

Two more shots ring out, the second one grazing his left shoulder. A white hot pain pulses from the wound. He stumbles and falls to the ground. Tears stream down his cheeks and he lets them. This is where he dies. Farther from home than he had ever been. The others would throw his body into the river and forget he had even existed.

Through his tears he could see two pairs of boots approaching him. One of them pushes him onto his back and he is met with the end of a rifle in his face. The bayonet presses into his right cheek, just hard enough to draw blood. Fritz held deathly still and begged for it to be over. The other soldier leaned over to the one with the gun in his face and whispered something. The first one laughed and swiped the blade up his face.  
It dug into his flesh, slicing through muscle and veins. Carving through his upper eyelid and finishing with a deep gash in his forehead. Blood gushed from the fresh wound and the vision in his right eye turned a deep crimson and then was gone. 

He curled into himself, holding his face. The boot connected with his stomach. Then his shin. Then his arms. He tried to get up only to have the butt of a rifle slammed into the back of his head. Fritz collapsed onto the cobble, trying to protect himself from the attack. After what felt like hours they finally left, laughing so hard they could barely breathe. He lay there for a while, crying silently to himself, wishing for home. For a warm bed and soft sheets. Not the waves of pain and fresh bruises that covered his body. Not the sharp pain he got when he blinked his right eye.

The sun was high in the sky when he got up. It was a long and painful process but soon enough he was standing. His shoulder felt like it was on fire. His legs shook under his weight and he began to stumble away from the camp. He found himself gingerly rubbing his eye, trying to get his sight back. All that came of it was more pain and a fresh rush of blood to the wound.

He walked until the sun dropped below the horizon. Then he walked some more. His body was screaming at him to rest but he could not stop. If he stopped, they would find him again. They would hurt him.

The moonlight bounced off something shiny in the distance. As he got closer it looked like a mouldy old house. There might be food. At that thought his stomach twisted into some painful, impossible shape. Beside the house was a mess of what appeared to be wood. It looked like an aeroplane had crashed into the original structure. 

Fritz slowly made his way to the house, hoping against hope that it would be empty. He approached from the back. The aeroplane was german, at least from what he could tell. It was severely burnt. One the ground a few meters away was the pilot. It looked like he had been dragged. His legs were scorched and there were two bullet holes in his chest. Off to the side was a small shed and beside that was a dead Englishman. He could not have been older than himself. A waste of life.

The house was dark and silent. Still, he would be careful. He crept inside. With only one eye and no moonlight he could barely see his own hands. Müller had dragged him away before he could grab his kit. It was left somewhere in a bombed out building, little pockets with food and his torch. 

His body was too broken to keep going so he moved further into the house. Fritz found a corner of a room covered by debris. He shuffled under them and curled up, trying to fend off the biting cold of the night. He rubbed his eye one last time, barely even registering the pain. Everything else hurt so bad already. Gripping his shoulder, he quietly cried himself to sleep. 

***

The next morning he was awoken by the twisting pain of his organs. Alcohol and adrenaline did not go well with an empty stomach. He crawled out from under the makeshift shelter just in time to retch onto the floor. The acid burned in his ruined throat. His body gave out and he dropped to the floor. Fritz needed to find food. 

The gloom of the morning sun was enough that he could see with his one eye. He crawled to what was once a kitchen and used the counter to pull himself up. Opening the cupboards one by one only made his heart sink. They were empty. Not even a cobweb. He was never meant to live. The war had already claimed him. It was only a matter of time.

A gruesome idea came to him. The pilot would not have food but he could swear he remembered seeing a kit on the dead Englishman. He must have food. Fritz staggered to the doorway and his eye landed on the boy's body. He did indeed have a kit. 

He tried to walk to him but ended up falling about halfway there. He had to drag himself the rest of the way there. As he reached the body, a wave of nausea swept over him and for a second he thought he might vomit. Then he thought of the food in one of those packs and remembered his mission. His need. It was not like the kid would need it anymore.

He gripped the fabric of the uniform and pushed him onto his side. One by one he went through the pouches and pockets, looking for anything. He found a tin of dried meat along with a few small cans with labels he could not read. After he took out the food he rolled the boy back to his original position and whispered a ragged thanks.

Taking his find, he crawls as far away from the dead as he can before his hunger wins and he rips into the dried meat. There are seven pieces inside the tin. He eats two having no idea how long he will be without food. Choosing a random can he opens it to find it filled with diced fruit. Fritz cannot remember the last time he had real fruit. The can is small and there is no way to preserve anything he does not eat so he eats it all. Barely even allowing himself time to chew. He stuffed the rest of the cans into various pockets on his uniform.

Feeling better he decides to try to get to the well nearby. Slowly, so as not to hurt himself further, he stands. His legs are trembling but he is able to make it to the trough. The pain in his left shoulder had dwindled to only a dull ache. He held his hand under the pipe and pumped with his right arm. After three pumps the water turned from murky brown to clear. He caught as much as he could and drank greedily. He continued pumping water into his palm and trying to catch every last drop until he was satisfied. 

Fritz splashed some water on his face trying to clean off the blood. A few drops got into his damaged eye and he opened his mouth in a raspy scream. He fell to the ground, writhing in pain. The water burned like fire and screaming made his throat feel like it was full of knives. Instead, he held his breath and waited for the pain to pass. Tears spilled from his right eye. The salt stinging the gash on his cheek.

Staying here meant death and he knew it. He had to keep moving. It was the only way he would have even a chance at life. He stood, taking one last look at the house. Then he began the slow trek back to the old trenches. He knew where all the traps were so they would be easy to avoid. He and Müller had set them after all. Fritz swallowed the lump forming in his throat at the thought of his friend.

He passed through a small orchard on his way. It was full of cherry trees in blossom, though they had all been cut down. If only it was a few months later. Then he might be able to get some cherries.

On the other side of the orchard was a large field. Once he crossed that, he would be back in the quarry. Somewhere in the bunk room was a med kit with bandages and tape. He could patch himself up and maybe even get some more food. 

He limped by the massive artillery guns. Barrels bent beyond repair. Empty shells littered the ground on either side of the boardwalk. Up ahead was the doorway into the trenches. There was a good layer of rock about a foot high at the base. Someone had set off the tripwire. He hoped it was that bastard Englishman that tried to choke him out. 

He clambered over the fallen rocks and into the dark hallway. Without a torch he was going to have to feel his way around. Fritz could just make out the pit in the pathway. He underestimated his jump and found himself scrabbling for purchase on the loose rock on the other side. His muscles screamed with the effort but he found something sturdy enough to pull himself up. Once he was up, he sat for a second. Letting his heart rate slow down.

Pushing the thought of him falling to his death away, he stumbled deeper into the tunnel. It was so dark and he only had the one working eye so he had to feel around in a room he knew was full of tripwires. The officers room was almost full of rocks and debris. He had to crawl on all fours just to get to the bunks.

A soft glow from the doorway on the other side of the room was enough for him to carefully make his way down the room. Digging through packs, looking for bandages, food, a torch, anything. His hands were shaking badly and he dropped one of the forgotten kits. It hit the ground with an almost deafening clatter.

Voices drifted down through the doorway. English. He knew if they found him that he was dead but there was nowhere to go. The voices were arguing now. Their anger seemed to be directed at a Kilgour. Something about how Stokes had checked last time. Fritz should have just died in Ecoust. It would have been better than getting all this way, having hope that he might make it. That he might live to see the end of this terrible war.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs outside of the doorway. He had only seconds left. A shadow filled the doorway and the glint of a bayonet shined from around the corner. Fritz sunk down against one of the bunks and cried quietly into his hands. He did not even notice the approaching figure until the point of the bayonet brushed against his shoulder. He looked up, trying to at least see what his killer looked like. 

He was just a boy, maybe a little older than himself. The dark obscured most of his features but not his eyes. They were pale and soft. Something in them changed when he saw him. A voice called from above, asking if it was a rat.

The boy spoke then, yelling back to his friend, “Must ‘ave been but i can’t find it anywhere.”

Even with the little English he learned, Fritz knew that the boy had just covered for him. Him. The enemy. The boy had lied to save his life. He took one last look at Fritz and then made his way back up the stairs.


	2. Seeing Red

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one's a little shorter but it's still packed with e m o t i o n s

The light from the doorway was slowly fading and so was Fritz. He dug into his pockets and pulled out the tin of dried meat. He quietly peeled back the lid and took out the smallest piece. Something above him hit the ground with a thud and there was the sound of laughter. 

He thought back to what the boy had done for him. He told the others it was only a rat. They must make quite a noise if it was enough to get the Englishmen to check it out. If soldiers were on a rotation then the next one might not be so kind to him.

Fritz ate the meat slowly, knowing he would not get much more. From the taste it was hard to call it meat. It tasted more like the tin itself and it hurt his teeth to bite into. Still he ate. If he ran out of food he would eat grass to keep his stomach from twisting like it did that morning.

The kit he had dropped caught his eye. It lay crumpled on the dirt floor. He scooched closer, gingerly unfolding it. Digging through the pockets was an agonizing process but he was rewarded with an almost dead torch and an open packet of dried fruit. He tucked the fruit away with the rest of his food and clicked on the torch.

He had almost forgotten how awful this place was. The earth pressing in from all around him. The thunder of the guns would shake it loose and it would drift down to the men below. While he was here he had slept on a top bunk. Every morning he would wake up with a fresh layer of grime on him. Müller would always laugh at that as he was on the bottom. 

As he searched, one thing he did not find was a med kit. The thing he so desperately needed. It was dark outside now and the only light came from his dying torch. After one last sweep of the room he decided to climb back into the officer’s quarters. The rocks blocking the doorway would hopefully discourage the Englishmen from looking in there for rats. He soon discovered that getting into the room was harder than getting out. A rock shifted under his weight and he froze, ears straining to see if the soldiers above had heard him. After a painfully long wait, he decided they had not and continued struggling to get in.

Part of the room next to the door was almost devoid of rocks. It was a small patch of dirt and if someone poked their head in they would surely see him. It did not matter anymore though. He was exhausted and his muscles burned. Fritz would give anything to go back to two days ago. They had just gotten to Ecoust, he and Müller went swimming in the river. The water was a lot warmer than back home.

He clicked off his torch and curled up on his side. Pillowing his head on his right arm. The stinging in his eye had gone down considerably but it was still watering. The skin around the cut felt dry and tight, like it could rip off at any second. He was sure if he were to see the rest of his body that it would be covered in bruises.

Even for how tired he was, sleep would not come. The sounds of the soldiers above slowly dwindled. He closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind. Told himself that the past two days were just a dream. When he opened them again he would be laying on a cold stone floor in Ecoust, Müller just a little ways away, smoking his morning cigarette. They would laugh and drink and try to forget about the nightmare they had found themselves in the middle of.

Something stirred in the other room. Soft footfalls padded down the steps and through the long room. There was a click and a warm light bled through the doorway. He scrambled up and pushed himself against the wall, trying to disappear into it, heart racing. A figure stepped through the door and looked around. Fritz could not make out his face from the torch he held. The figure spotted him and quickly set the torch on some rocks. He raised his arms above his head slowly and he could see that it was the boy from before. His eyes glowed a pale green color in the light.

“I just want to help,” he whispered softly.

His hands slowly found their way beneath a ratty cloak and into one of his pockets. They came back with rolls of bandage and gauze.

“Will you let me help you?”

Fritz wished for his voice back. Instead all he could do was nod his head. The boy slowly moved towards him. Pulling out a canteen, he poured some water on a square of clean gauze and dabbed it gently on his cheek. It hurt like hell. Fritz balled his hands into the fabric of his pants and gripped so hard his knuckles turned white. Anything to keep him from using his voice. 

The boy put his right hand on Fritz’ left and held it tight. The simple gesture took him completely by surprise. The touch was warm and soft. It was such a welcome reprieve from the violence he was used to.

“My name’s Arthur, by the way.”

He tried to rasp his own name but it just would not come out. His right hand came to his throat and he pressed it gingerly to his skin, tears pricking in his left eye. This boy, Arthur, was so kind. He was helping him, a complete stranger, not to mention a German. He even wanted to know his name.

“What’s wrong? Here,” he shuffled closer, “Let me take a look.” Arthur gingerly undid the button on his collar and pulled back the fabric. Fritz knew it was bad from the expression on his face. Warm fingers brushed gently against his neck.

“That’s gonna take some time to heal,” he thought for a moment, “Oh! I know. You can use this.” Arthur reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a small pad of paper and a charcoal pencil. Fritz took them and with shaky hands he wrote his name. 

Arthur looked at the pad, “It’s good to meet you Fritz.”

He went back to wiping the wound on his face. The pain was more manageable now. Bit by bit the blood was wiped away. Still, his right eye watered. He squeezed it shut, trying to make it stop.

“Tilt your head back a little?” Arthur’s voice was soft on his ears. He did as he was asked.

The boy pulled out his canteen once more, taking out the cork. However this time instead of pouring it on gauze, he raised it to Fritz’ face. He felt a hand come to the right side of his face, holding his damaged eye open. He had not forgotten the pain from that morning when only a few drops made it to his injury. He reached up, trying to pull Arthur’s hand away but he was so tired. There was no fight left in him.

“You’ve just got some blood in your eye. This is going to help. I promise.”

The water felt like fire on his eye. He twisted in pain. It took all the strength he had left just to keep from screaming. He dug his boots into the ground, trying to push away from Arthur. Lights exploded behind his eyes. All he wanted was for it to stop. The boy took the canteen away and set it on the floor beside them. Then he pressed a patch of fresh gauze to his eye.

“Can you hold this for me?”

He did. Arthur picked up a roll of bandage and began to wind it around the gash Fritz’ face. After that was his shoulder. The cut was not too deep but it still limited his movements. Arthur cleaned it out and a gauze square was put over it. Bandages were wrapped tightly around it, numbing some of the pain.

By this point, Fritz was so tired he could barely move his fingers. Arthur held the canteen to his mouth so he could drink. Then he sat down beside him. Fritz leaned his head on the boy's shoulder. Arthur turned and wrapped his hands around Fritz’ waist, holding him close. He was warm even through layers of clothing and he welcomed the touch. No one had ever treated him so kindly. Müller liked him but he had never really cared about his well being. Fritz buried his face in Arthur’s shoulder and was soon asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> müller's not an ass, people just don't touch in germany. i didn't know nice it was like to hold hands untill i was fourteen.


	3. A Still Tension In The Swell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry in advance

Fritz slowly comes to. A dull ache on his face and shoulder. A soft hand is playing with his hair and his cheek is pressed against something warm. He moves to try to get closer to the heat and an arm drapes over his shoulder. He leans into the touch, wanting to stay like this forever. Someone cares about him even when they do not need to. They want to be sure he is okay. Nobody has ever loved him like that.

Arthur whispers softly into his hair, “I’ve got to go. The others will be missing me. But I’ll come back tonight alright. Then I’ll change your dressing and you can tell me what happened.”

Fingers brushed against his uninjured cheek. He longed for them to stay. He had never known touch could feel so good. Arthur stood and adjusted his webbing. He unhooked something and set it down beside Fritz. It was a wool blanket, rolled into a messy bundle.

“I’m sure you know how cold it is down here and there aren’t any other blankets so you can take mine.”

It might be the fact that Fritz only had the use of one eye, but he could swear that Arthur was blushing. He reached out and took the blanket, nodding his head in thanks. Then the boy was gone. 

The itchy wool was wonderful at holding in the heat. He pulled it tight around him and tucked himselft into the corner. His hand reached up to scratch at his bandages. It felt nice but he knew that he should leave them alone. To distract himself, he took out two more pieces of dried meat. He pulled out a little can with a partially destroyed label. Fritz looked it over while he chewed and decided it was safe. Ripping off the top, it looked to be some kind of paste. It did not taste like much of anything but it did fill his stomach. That was good.

He licked the inside of the can and tucked it away in his coat, not wanting to risk making noise. While he was fiddling with his pockets his fingers brushed against the notepad. He took it out and switched on the torch he had found. It was almost dead and he could barely make out a thing. Opening the notepad, he saw his name written in his own scratchy hand. Fritz flicked through the other pages. Most were empty except the last four. Each page had a drawing of the war. They looked almost like photographs. The first one was a picture of no man's land, complete with barbed wire corpses in various states of decay.

The second one showed a bombed out house. To the side of it were two English soldiers looking up at a third sitting on the crumbling wall. The face of the one on the wall was so incredibly detailed. It looked so lifelike, Arthur must know this man. It was somehow calming to look at. He spent a long time just taking in this drawing. Drinking in the sketchy lines and smudged charcoal.

On the third page was something slightly more dark. It was a highly realistic depiction of a german corpse. He tried not to let himself dwell on this picture too much. Tried not to see the scribbled blood and smudged grime. Tried not to see the colors in his head. The rotten flesh sliding off of the skull. Eyes half eaten away by time. Fritz was sure if he had known this man in life he would have been able to identify him in this drawing.

His torch was about to go out so he quickly flipped to the last page. All he was able to catch was a glimpse because just then his torch died and the darkness pressed in around him. From the second or so of his seeing it he knew it was of a tree. Two figures sat beneath it, leaning against each other. They looked to be sharing rations. The pictures were so realistic. Even with only a flash he knew he recognized both men. The taller of the two was the one who had tried to strangle him. He would not forget his face anytime soon. The second one had to be the boy he had found near the plane crash. Only now he looked to be laughing and full of life.

His day was spent listening to the muffled conversations above and sleeping when he could manage it. His body was in a constant state of pain from the attack but he could not bring himself to look. Fritz’ skin was surely a sickly yellow green. Bruises healed fine when left alone. He was going to be alright. There was no need to see the damage done to his body. Everytime he shifted he could feel the blood clots forming under the skin.

That evening, well after the sun had gone down, Arthur came back. The glow of his torch light was soothing. He padded through the doorway and climbed over the rubble, dropping down in front of him. He silently offered his canteen and Fritz snatched it up. He pulled out the cork and emptied half of its contents. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve as he handed it back. Arthur replaced the cork and set it aside.

“I’ll change these and then we can talk, alright?”

Fritz nodded a response and Arthur set to work. He began unwinding the bandage around his face, being careful not to actually touch the wound. When he got to the last layer it was starting to hurt. The blood had dried and stuck the bandage to his skin. Pulling it off meant pulling off the scab. Arthur placed his hand against Fritz’ left cheek, letting it stay there for a moment, before quickly pulling off the bandage.

It stung badley but not enough to make him scream. He clenched his fists in the fabric of his coat. Now Arthur was slowly peeling off the gauze. He was peeling it because the tears from his eye had turned into a sticky mess. He could not open his eye if he wanted to. 

Arthur splashed some water on a clean square of gauze and dabbed it gently on the eye. Fritz tensed, waiting for the pain, but it did not come. Instead he felt only the pressure of the other’s hand. 

“Try opening it now,” he asked.

Fritz did and was shocked when the light from the torch burned into his retna. He could see again. He held his hands before his face and moved his fingers. He looked up at Arthur who was beaming, clearly having figured out what was going on. Fritz jumped forward and pulled the other man into a hug. Arthur chuckled and hugged him back.

“Now let me bandage your scratch back up.”

Fritz sat back against the wall, overjoyed. He could see with both eyes again. Arthur pulled out a tiny pot of salve and applied it heavily to his cut. He said it would keep out infection. It felt like ice in his blood. A chill ran down his spine. Arthur held two squares of gauze to his forehead and cheek. Then, using a new bandage, wrapped them tight to his skin. His right eye was covered but it was still able to take in the world around him. 

Arthur then moved to his shoulder. Once again, the gauze was stuck to the wound. This time it hurt a little more to pull off. Already, the gash was starting to close. He applied more salve and stuck a new gauze patch to it. 

When he was done, Arthur slipped in next to him and Fritz leaned his head against the others chest. He pulled the ratty blanket up around them.

“Now, tell me how you got in such a state.” 

A hand came up to rest in his hair and Fritz relished the touch. He dug out the notepad and pencil began to shakily write out what had happened. He wrote about being strangled, about how Müller had told him to run, that they defected, about the beating. Even with his broken english and bad spelling, Arthur understood. 

Finally he wrote about the farm house, how he had gotten the food. About how the plane had crashed. How he had made it through the tunnels. How he just wanted to heal and then he would be on his way. When he set the notepad down, Arthur pulled him into a warm hug. Fritz could feel tears in his eyes and he let them fall. So much had happened, all he wanted was to go home. Arthur carefully rubbed his back, trying to avoid the bruises he now knew were there. Fritz sobbed quietly into his chest. They stayed that way for a long time.

“I’ve got you now. You’re okay.”

Eventually Fritz calmed down. He was no longer crying but Arthur still held him close. He reached over and switched off the torch. The darkness was heavy on them. That combined with the warmth from Arthur and Fritz was out cold. Just before he drifted off he could swear he felt a kiss being planted against his scalp.

***

He was dreaming. It had to be a dream. A terrible, awful dream. He had come too far for it not to be real. Boots dug into his skin and rifles cracked against his bones. He knew if he could just roll over that he would be safe, that it would be over. But something was holding him there. He was stuck. It hurt. It hurt so bad. Why did the others hate him so much? He just wanted to die.

Beside him stood Müller. Fritz called out to him, asked him for help. Müller had always kept him safe. Kept them from beating him too bad. Only now he stayed still. Letting it happen. Fritz screamed for him to get them off. Get them to leave him alone. He did nothing, watching with glossy eyes. Uncaring.

Fritz kicked and thrashed, trying to get loose. Whatever was holding him still suddenly let go and he was able to roll onto his back. The second he did however, he felt a bayonet spear him in the gut. He froze in pain. The blade was slowly removed. Then plunged into his flesh again. And again. And again. He could feel hot blood bubble up in his throat. Taste the metallic tang of it on his tongue. Why was he still alive? What had he done to deserve this?

Now the blades were in his shoulders, his chest, his face. They carved and twisted. His front was soaked with more blood than he thought possibe. He silently begged for it to end. A voice spoke into his ear, full of terror, calling his name. It pleaded with him to wake up. Arthur. This was only a dream. He had to wake up, had to get away.

His eyes snapped open and he choked on air. It was too dark to see anything but he felt warm hands cupping his face. Then they were gone and it was freezing. With a click, Arthur turned on his torch. The light burned but he could make out his friend. He set the torch down and placed his hands on Fritz’ shoulders.

“Are you okay? Was it a nightmare?” His voice was panicky.

Fritz nodded to both questions. Arthur sighed and shuffled closer, holding Fritz in his arms.

“I get those too. Sometimes I get more rest if I just don’t sleep.”

He leaned into Arthur, listening to the sound of his heart. Wishing for all the world that he could talk. To tell him he understood.

“You comfy there?” he asked

Fritz nodded. He was comfy. He was right where he wanted to be. And that is when it hit him. He loved Arthur. He loved him so much it hurt. He knew he should not but he did anyway. What a cruel joke the world was playing on him.

“Good. We’ve still got a few hours till dawn, so, try and get some sleep.”

He knew Arthur did not love him back. The touches came so easily from him. That must be normal in England. They meant nothing. He was destined to have his heart broken. He should move away, should try not to talk to him. Instead he wrapped an arm around Arthur’s chest.

They both fell asleep tangled in each other's arms. Torch dimly iluminating the room around them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> writing this has become my life. i cried writing Fritz' nightmare. THAT DOES NOT HAPPEN I DO NOT HAVE EMOTIONS.


	4. Blinding Lights

Arthur took his notepad with him the next morning after tearing out the pages Fritz had written on. The day passed much the same. He spent his time resting, watching the rats and hoping they stayed quiet. In the evening, Arthur came back. He redressed his wounds and handed back the notepad. 

They talked for a while, Fritz still having to write out his answers. They talked about home, families, friends. He learned that Arthur lived with his mother and younger sister in Hyde. That he was not in a relationship, and that he liked to draw when he was scared. Opening the notepad, he showed him his sketches. The one of the two men by the tree was missing. Arthur explained that each one took about two hours to do. When he got to the one of the German corpse, he told him that he had been stuck in a crater in no man’s land for hours and so he drew what he saw. 

There was a new one of a small dog in a trench. It looked like a rat terrier. Scruffy and covered with mud. They used to have a dog. It did not make it to Ecoust however. 

Once again, they curled up together under the blanket. Arthur carding his fingers through Fritz’ hair. Falling asleep in the soft glow from the torch light. 

This was how his days would go. Arthur would leave in the early morning, taking his notepad with him. Fritz would sit very still and try to listen to the conversations above. He would eat bits of food here and there, never quite full but never as bad as that morning at the farmhouse. Arthur would come back late at night and redress his wounds while telling him about his day. Showing him any new drawings he had. Then they would turn off the torch and Arthur would hold him close and they would fall asleep.

And every day Fritz fell a little harder. He knew that he was not supposed to love Arthur but he did. He loved him so much. He longed for every little touch, every brush of his hands while he cleaned his wounds. Waited all day until he could fall asleep in the other’s arms. He listened eagerly to his stories, even if they were just about everyday tasks. Hoped every day that Arthur had drawn something new. Sometimes they were of people, other times it was just scenery. Either way he loved them. He loved Arthur.

After about two days, his throat had healed enough that he could talk. With the little English he knew he told him all about home. About the forest behind his house. About his older brother. How they would go exploring in the woods when they were little. That when the war started, his father and brother did not hesitate to enlist. He received the letters telling of their death at almost the same time. Even so, he enlisted as soon as he could. Fritz had no idea how much he would come to regret that decision.

It was all he could do to hold back his tears at the thought of his family. Arthur held him close and he gave in. Crying softly while the other rubbed slow circles into his back This war had taken everything short of his life. 

Every day he grew stronger. His body ached less and bleeding was rare. Arthur told him that his face was healing nicely. That if they kept cleaning it, the scarring would be minimal.

Three days later, while he was emptying his last tin of food, a rat jumped up on the rubble beside him. He watched it, staying still. The animal began to climb up some of the debris. Fritz paid it no mind and leaned his head back, trying to get some more sleep. After a few minutes, just before he drifted off the rat kicked a rock out of the pile. With it came at least eight others, falling loudly to the floor.

He jolted awake, hopping to his feet. Voices shouted from above and he heard Arthur pleading with them. Fritz needed to get out but he could barely see in the tunnel. He knew there could still be active traps and he did not want to set them off. He heard a small yelp and Arthur landed heavily at the bottom of the stairs. He lay there clutching his head. In a moment of stupidity, Fritz started to go to him. Footsteps rushed down the stairs and then he was face to face with an Englishman. Two others on his heels. A horrible wave of deja vu washed over him and he stumbled back. 

It was him. The one who had tried to kill him all those days ago. All of this was his fault. Müller might still be alive if it was not for him. Fritz would not be in so much pain right now. The soldier reached for his rifle and aimed it at his chest. A flash of recognition in his eyes.

Arthur called out from the stairwell, “Schofield! Don’t!”

Fritz put his hands up in surrender, “Bitte! Please don’t shoot me!”

The man, Schofield, spoke quietly, “He’s a Hun. I have to.”

Fritz squeezed his eyes shut, not wanting to see. He heard Arthur yell and then a shot rang out. Hot pain spread from his lower right leg. He screamed and fell to the floor. Warm hands lifted him up and cradled his head. Arthur.

“Don’t shoot him,” Fritz held onto his cloak like a liferaft, “He’s defected. Please.”

One of the others spoke. He could not see them as his face was buried in Arthur’s chest. “You knew he was down here? Why the fuck would you not tell us Kilgour? He could be a spy!”

“He’s not. Look at him! He’s only a kid and he’s hurt. And I knew you would take him to the Sergeant. I couldn’t let them send him to a camp.”

The room fell deathly silent for what felt like an eternity. The only sounds were from Fritz. He cried softly into Arthur’s coat. The other man stroked his hair in an attempt to calm him. What had he done? Why did the world feel the need to punish him so? He desperately wanted to be far away from this war. He wanted Arthur to be with him too.

Finally Schofield spoke, “Fine. Get him cleaned up. I won’t tell the General but you’ll have to give him your own rations. If you want him around so badly then you’ll have to pay for it.”

Arthur nodded and got Fritz to a standing position, supporting most of his weight. He whispered softly into his ear, “See? You’re gonna be alright.”

Getting up the narrow stairway was a challenge. The sun hurt his eyes after so long in the dark. Off to the side was a makeshift camp, Schofield and the stranger sat around a small table, talking in hushed voices. Arthur set him on the ground. His pant leg had been torn open and the wound was clearly visible. It was soaked in a deep crimson.

“It’s alright, it barely even grazed you. You’re gonna be fine.”

Fritz nodded through his tears. Arthur opened his canteen and dumped the contents onto his leg. Lights exploded behind his eyes and he screamed through his teeth.

“I know, I know. It’s okay.”

Arthur used the rest of the salve on his leg.The icy feeling numbed some of the pain. Now he was pressing on the raw skin with some gauze. It still stung and he held his breath to keep from screaming again. Soft hands wrapped bandages tightly around the leg.

“Done. I’m done. See? That’s not so bad,” it sounded more like he was trying to convince himself. Fritz pulled him into a hug, whispering his thanks. Arthur wiped away his tears. He loved this man so much. He wanted to spend every second he had left on earth with him.

The others called Arthur over to come play cards with them. 

“Are you gonna be okay here?”

“Yeah, I will be fine,” he gave Arthur one last squeez before he left.

He watched him go. Even though it was only two meters it felt like miles. He leaned his head back and just tried to get some rest. It was not easy but slowly he slipped into a light sleep. When he opened his eyes again, Arthur had pulled a blanket around them both and was out cold, leaning on his shoulder. Fritz put his right arm around the other waist and looked up at the sky above. He did not even remember the last time he really looked at the stars. They shined brightly in the cool night air, lulling him back to sleep.

The next few weeks passed with little to say. The bullet only grazed his leg and soon he was able to walk again. Most of his time awake was spent by Arthur’s side. He knew the others were weary of his presence. They still saw him as the enemy and he looked at them the same way. Arthur was his anchor to another world. Without him he would surely be dead. 

The months changed and more plants began to bloom. Fritz still had the occasional nightmare but Arthur was always right there to wake him up. He got more used to the soldiers around him. He would watch them when they were not looking. Trying to see what their lives were like. Sometimes Schofield would sit for hours looking at a scrap of paper with a blank expression on his face. Fritz guessed it was the missing drawing. He and the boy must have been good friends.

Arthur’s drawings became more lighthearted. He drew more of nature and less of war. He also did portraits of the others including Fritz, politely leaving out the bandages. He told him it was to remember him by, so Fritz asked for one of Arthur. About three hours later, he got it. It was a portrait of him smiling softly at something off the page. This was his most cherished possession. He tucked it safely into his breast pocket.

Fritz learned the names of the other soldiers after a time. There was Schofield, Stokes, and Rushworth. Stokes and Rushworth had a rather neutral opinion of him and Schofield was a complete mystery. He could not tell if the man hated him or not and he always got a sad look in his eyes when he saw Arthur with him.

At some point his face and shoulder had healed enough that Arthur decided they did not need the bandages. The scar tissue was still fresh but he promised it did not look too bad. Lots of girls like scars he told him. Fritz did not care about girls however. He wanted to know if Arthur liked it.

On May third the rotation was set to change. Arthur and the others would be sent back to the English trench and someone else would take their place. This was the last time Fritz would see him. He knew he could not stay and that it was very unlikely they would meet again. Still he would always hold these memories close.

He helped them pack up their things. The others began to walk away but Arthur stood rooted to the spot. Once the others were well out of sight he turned to Fritz and cupped his face in his hands, pressing their lips together. He was shocked. All this time he thought his love was one sided. Fritz deepened the kiss and Arthur welcomed it. They stopped for breath and he spoke softly, “If we never see eachother again, know that your life was my life's best part.” One last kiss and then he too was gone, walking over the edge of the trench into no man’s land.

Fritz clutched at his breast pocket, pressing the picture inside against his heart. They would meet again. He would make sure of that. As he turned to go tears fell from his eyes. If he had spoken up maybe they would have gotten more time together. Stolen kisses while the others slept. But no. That time was gone.

He walked until the sun went down. Finding a large tree he lay down to sleep. His leg pulsed with a dull ache but he could handle it. He craved just one more touch from Arthur. To feel the warmth of his hands one more time. For the first time in almost a month, he was alone. He swore to himself that once all of this was over, he would find Arthur again. He fell asleep by himself, no warm body next to him to wake him from his nightmares. Clutching the drawing in his breast pocket like a lifeline in the ocean of the war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> only one more after this lads. hope your hearts can handle it.


	5. Epilogue

Arthur’s head slipped and he bashed it on the desk. He had fallen asleep. Before him lay a scattering of drawings, large and small. They were scenes from his dreams. Sweeping landscapes of the war. Soldiers standing in trenches. But most of all, portraits of Fritz. He appeared in his dreams almost every night. Sometimes, he would have to save him. Others, Fritz would protect him from the carnage of war. Holding him close until he woke.

It was July twentieth, 1921. The war had been over for almost three years. Things had calmed down but he doubted they would ever go back to the way they were. If Fritz was alive, he would have heard from him by now. Coming to terms with his loss had been difficult. He had mourned his death but things were getting better. The world was getting brighter and he allowed himself to be happy again.

His room was a mess. Finished drawings and abandoned sketches covered every available surface. Even his fifteen-year-old sister was cleaner than him. He got up and stumbled down the stairs. The clock on the wall told him it was almost two thirty in the morning. Arthur pulled open one of the cupboards and stared blankly at the contents. Food was not what he needed right now. What he needed was sleep. He did, however, notice they were out of a lot of things. Tomorrow he would go to the market.

That night, he slept restlessly. The fire of war filling his dreams. Fritz was there as well, trapped in the middle of the bloody battlefield. He tried to reach him but he could not move. It felt as though he was in deep water. Arthur called his name but he could not hear him. He bolted upright, breathing heavily, tears streaming down his face. He wiped them away. Sunlight fell in broken beams through his open window.

He slowly stood, trying to push away the memory of the dream. He dressed and headed downstairs. His mother was making breakfast in the kitchen while his sister sat at the table, reading.

“I’m going to the shop, be back in a bit,” he announced.

His mother wished him well and he was out the door.

The morning was chilly even though it was the middle of summer. He was thankful for the warm sun on his back. It was not a long walk to the market and almost no one was there this early. He picked up what he needed and was just about to leave when a package of graphite pencils caught his eyes. These were much better than the charcoal he used. They were not too much more expensive. He gave in to temptation and purchased a pack. A childish excitement bubbled up inside of him at the thought of trying them out later.

By the time he reached home again the sun was well above the rooftops. Arthur ate a small breakfast and then went upstairs to test his new pencils. Rachel scolded him for buying them but it was his money. They were smoother by far and left very little dust. Even the darkest ones. The silver grey tone they produced was beautiful.

Hours passed while he sketched. His family knew better than to disturb him. By the time he finally took a break the sun had almost set. He treaded lightly down the stairs. A meal had been set aside for him. He ate by himself. Then he went back to his room to draw. This was how all his days had gone.

His family felt as though he never really came home. He would rarely talk about what he saw and they did not know how to help him. They missed him dearly. Sometimes he would come down and eat with them. They would talk and laugh and for a shining moment, Arthur was back. Then he would leave again, go up to his room to draw.

His pictures used to be so delicate. Scenes of the country, drawings of city roads. They were lighthearted and happy. Drawings of an innocent mind. Now it was rare to see one without the faces of the dead. They depicted bombed out towns, half dug trenches, the violence beauty of war.

It was August 25th when the knock came. It was so soft that Arthur barely heard it. Rachel’s voice drifted up from below, telling them that she would get it. He continued sketching. The door clicked open but he could not hear the conversation. He heard it shut. His sister came up the stairs and stepped quietly into his room.

“There’s a man outside wants to see you.”

“He give you a name?” he asked, not looking up from his desk.

“No, said you’d know him,”

Everyone he knew was either dead or missing. Lost to the war. He stood and made his way down the stairs, trying to remember who was still alive. Why they would not want to give a name. His sister followed closely behind him, eager to know who it was that wanted to see her brother. Once he reached the door he slowly pulled it open.

It was a dream. A horrible, cruel dream. It could not have been real because the man stood before him was Fritz. He would recognize those dark eyes anywhere. He was not in uniform and was dressed in a white, button down shirt. The scar stretching from his cheek and over his right eye had begun to fade. In his left hand he held a bloodstained scrap of paper. Arthur knew it was the drawing of himself.

This was real. He was really standing there. He tucked the paper back into his breast pocket. Arthur’s heart was in his throat, he thought he had died long ago. Spent nights crying over the loss. Now he was standing just outside his door.

When their eyes met, Fritz smiled sadly and pulled him into a hug. He felt the familiar touch and gripped him tight. Balling his fists in the back of the other man’s shirt.

“I’m sorry it took so long to find you,” he whispered into Arthur’s ear. His accent was barely noticeable.

“I thought I’d lost you,” he was fighting to hold back his tears.

When they finally broke apart, Arthur placed his hands on the other’s shoulders. Drinking in the dusting of pink on his cheeks that always came from his touch. He would give anything to kiss him right here in the doorway. But that would have to wait.

“So who is he?” his mother had come to the door as well.

“This is my friend Fritz,” he answered, “We met after he defected.” Fritz held out his hand and his mother gingerly took it.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Fritz spoke softly, “I do have a favor to ask though.”

“And what’s that?” she seemed weary of his presence.

“Could I stay here? I don’t have a job yet and have no money for boarding. I’ll help with work around the house to pay for myself,” he cast his eyes to the floor as he spoke.

Arthur’s mother looked at the two of them. Her son looked happier than he had in years. It was worth a shot. “Of course. You’ll have to share a room with Arthur however.”

They beamed at one another. He took Fritz upstairs to get him settled. He started cleaning up his drawings, but Fritz stopped him. All he had seen were the few in his old notepad. These were full size pieces.

“These. These are really good,” he said, looking at a scene from no man’s land.

Arthur came up behind him and wrapped his arms around the other’s waist, planting a kiss on his neck.

“I missed you so much.”

Fritz turned in his grasp and kissed him back. It felt just like it did on that day, all those years ago.

“I missed you too,” he said, tipping his head up for another kiss.

At dinner, Arthur talked animatedly with Fritz. He spoke more that evening than he had the entire time he had been home. Telling stories of the war as if they were nothing. After a time Fritz asked about the others.

“Well,” Arthur took a sip of his wine, “a few months after you left, Schofield got the Spanish Flu. They sent him home on leave and I never heard from him again. Stokes got shelled while on patrol and Rushworth went MIA.”

“I always liked Rushworth.”

“He was a good lad. What about you? Where did you go after you left?”

Fritz hung his head, “That’s, not really a story for the dinner table. I’ll tell you later.”

Rachel spoke up, “No! Now I really want to hear what happened!”

“Oh leave him be Rachel. If he doesn’t want us to know then that’s that,” Arthur’s mother scolded.

Arthur put his hand over Fritz’ arm, watching as his ears turned pink, “I can wait.”

Dinner continued, Rachel wanted to hear more stories about the war and the two happily obliged. When Arthur held his hands about a foot apart to show how big the rats were the other stopped him. He said the rats in their trenches were at least a foot and a half long. Rachel was equally disgusted by both options.

After the others had gone to bed, the two sat together on the couch. Fritz resting his head in the other’s lap. Arthur stroked his hair and smiled at the pink on his partner’s cheeks.

“You’re so cute when you blush,” he chuckled.

“What do you mean?”

“Every time I touch you you turn bright pink. I could even see it in the dark with just my torch.”

With that Fritz went from pink to a vibrant shade of red. “I didn’t even notice.”

“You have no idea how badly I wanted to kiss you. I think I even gave in once while you were asleep.”

“I hate to be the one to break the news but I wasn’t asleep yet,” Fritz grinned.

Now it was Arthur’s turn to blush, “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I thought I would scare you away!”

They both chuckled lightly at that, then fell quiet, smiling softly at each other. The two sat in comfortable silence for a minute, both enjoying the warmth of the other’s body. After a time, Arthur spoke, “What did happen? After…” He stopped, a lump had formed in his throat.

“I just walked. I think at the time I planned to walk home. That was stupid of me. I found a river and followed that but I still had no food. I was so hungry by the time someone found me. A French patrol spotted me. I was too tired to run. They took me to a POW camp. It wasn’t all bad. Got two meals a day and an old cot to sleep on. And I still had your drawing.

“They let me go at the end of the war. I took a train home. My mother almost had a heart attack when she saw my face,” he laughed and Arthur’s heart melted, “I stayed with her for a while until I got back on my feet. Then I was gonna go to find you. But my mother got sick. They said it was the Spanish Flu. I couldn’t. I couldn’t just leave her. She didn’t have anyone else.

“A few weeks later she,” he choked and Arthur took his hand in his own, “I left after that. There was no reason to stay and I missed you so much. I got on a train to France. The man in my compartment was really nice. Neither of us spoke much English though. Once we got to the docks, we both got in line to get tickets to England. He was a few people before me. When he got to the front, they turned him away the second they heard his accent. I knew they would do the same to me so I left. I didn’t have enough money to go back so I stayed in France.

“I did odd jobs for people and spent nights learning English. After a year I had enough money to buy a ticket and was able to hide my voice enough that I thought I might as well try. They let me pass and I got on the boats. Turns out I don’t travel well on the ocean. When we landed I found the nearest train station. You had said you lived by the Peak District in Hyde so I bought a ticket. Then I just wandered around and asked if anybody knew you.”

Arthur was silent. So much had happened to him and it was all his fault.

“Oh Fritz, I’m so sorry. I should’ve found a way for you to stay,” his voice was so low Fritz could barely hear him, “I should’ve protected you. You were hurt for fucks sake. God, what was I thinking.” Tears dripped from his eyes.

Fritz sat up and pulled him close, “You know I couldn’t have stayed. They would have found me and we would have both been sent to a camp. Look at me. I’m right here, see? No damage done.”

“I thought you were dead for so long. I thought I had killed you!”

Arthur cried silently and Fritz pressed a kiss to his forehead. “It’s gonna be okay. Things will get better. We’re gonna take this one day at a time and I’ll be right here. Okay?”

Arthur nodded.

That night, for the first time in a long time, neither of them had any nightmares. They lay on the soft bed under the covers, Arthur’s arms around Fritz’ chest, face nuzzled in the nape of his neck. Fritz drinking in the familiar touch and the warmth that accompanied it. They would take it one day at a time. Over the years, things would get better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I can't belive I wrote this thing in like three days.
> 
> A little bit of history.
> 
> They really did turn people away based on their accent. It took a long time for people to travel because of this. 
> 
> I don't know how it was in England but if a German soldier was caught speaking with an allied soldier, both would be sent to a POW camp where they were very likely to die.


End file.
